Not So Bad
by eriridan
Summary: It starts with a sarcastic question, and Dean can't believe Sam actually wants it.


**A/N:**

This is my first spn/wincest fanfic, so I do hope you enjoy it. uwu This is a gift for one of my dear best friends, Rennu—not to mention Sam and Dean need more fluff and cuddles.

Enjoy!

"God damn it, Sam," Dean curses, brows pulling together in concentration. The stitch work he's doing is getting messier by the minute; all thanks to Sam's moving around, of-fucking-course. _If you weren't being such a bitch about this, I'd have had this done and you patched up fifteen minutes ago._ "Would you quit your goddamn _moving_, fuck, Sammy," he murmurs under his breath, willing his hands steady as they stitch his younger brother's skin back together.

Dean's words cause a sigh to slip not-so-quietly from Sam's mouth, his own brows furrowed together in a fit of pain and discomfort. _Don't be such a fucking jerk, Dean, you're not the one who was thrown through a double-glass window. _"Yeah, well, you're doing a piss poor job, Dean," he grits, jaw clenching as his shoulders tense. "A _real_ piss poor job," Sam groans, pained and tired with a mixture of sore and dirty, but then again, that's really how it is these days.

"Quit bein' such a bitch," Dean tells him, working the needle through skin, his own jaw clenching at the sight of Sam's torn bicep. It was a real shitty, vengeful spirit they'd dealt with back there, and apparently it hadn't taken too well to Sam when he'd dumped the whole container of gasoline on its bones. Seems the spirit was determined not to get going just yet, and took it of itself to throw Sam through the double-glass window; luckily enough that drew its attention away from Dean and bought him enough time to throw some lit matches onto the body, causing it to vanish in a fit of screams and flames.

Which, brought the two of them here, back in their motel room as they sit side by side (sweaty, dirty, covered in dust and blood and God only knows what else) as Dean works on stitching his younger brother's skin back together. "Y'know, Dean, maybe we should just go to the hosp—"

"Shut it, Sammy," was Dean's only response as he continued his work, padding at the bloody skin with a seemingly clean rag he'd grabbed from the bathroom before-hand. It makes Sam give out a small sigh, his eyes narrowed as his bitch face takes over his expression. With that, Dean's smirking as he works and Sam's face is more intense than usual, and it goes good and well and Dean's sure he's got this under control to where he won't hurt his brother even more—though the thought ends midway as a hiss of pain from Sam's mouth comes to his ears, making him look up immediately. "Sammy, what's wro-?"

"You're doing a _piss poor job_, that's what's _wrong_," he hisses, lips twisted in discomfort and eyes narrowed in frustration as his hands clench and unclench. Usually Dean would have had this done and over with in no time, Sam knew for a fact; and the thought only sparks up more frustration. "Come on, just—give me the damn thing and I'll—"

Dean scoffs, cutting Sam off mid-sentence as he rolls his eyes, imitating his younger brother. "I'm serious here, man, I'm doin' the best I can. I'm tired and dirty as hell and in pain, too. Not to mention my arms are fuckin' strained from forty minutes of this, so just shut it and suck it up, _bitch, _and stop movin'. It'll go faster_._"

"_Ye_ah, Dean, I know," he sighs out, tone exasperated as he pulls back his upper lip, concentrating on anything but the slightly shaking needle in his arm. "I'm not a fuckin' idiot—just why do you think I'm in this much pain, huh? _Forty_ minutes of this sure causes some pain, so stop being such an inconsiderate _jerk."_

"Oh, well, _sorry,_" Dean says, sarcasm dripping with each syllable. He rolls his eyes again as he directs the needle out of Sam's skin, cutting it with ease and finishing it up. "You want me to kiss it better, _Sammy?_" he says, the sarcasm still there as he quickly pours alcohol over the stitching, a quiet laugh coming from his chest as Sam tenses from the sting of it. He's just about to get up from the bed and go off to the bathroom to tend to his own wounds when he hears Sam speak up, something in his voice triggering a small heat to radiate his body.

"Wouldn't hurt, really."

Brows furrowed, Dean settles himself as he was before, facing Sam with his head tilted almost too curiously. He was sure he heard his brother right, was sure he heard the softness and—what was that?—_want_ in his voice. Sam's eyes were averted away, head hung and lips pursed; though Dean knew that he could fully well sense his gaze, could tell he was thinking about what he was sure he heard, perhaps a bit too much before he finally spoke: "Sammy?"

The taller let out a sigh, lips twisting slightly before he shook his head, turning his back toward Dean hastily as he said, "Nothing, nothing, nevermind it, Dean, just—" he cut himself off, waving a hand off to the side as though to actually indicate the 'nothing' of it.

"Hey, don't do _that_—" Dean says automatically, reaching to put his hand on Sam's, stilling it in his own. "You lost some blood, dude. Don't wanna be waving around your injured arm like… that…" he finishes, probably a bit too weakly then he had planned. The words would have came out stronger if not for the heat he felt, the sudden spike of a heartbeat in his ears, against his hand—and as cheesy as it sounded (and _goddamn_ does it sound cheesy), Dean couldn't help but wonder vaguely if it was his own body heat radiating, his own heartbeat quickening; or maybe it was Sam's, maybe it was his and his brother's.

_Maybe._

Dean was momentarily frozen, only undone so by the warm grip he felt close around his hand—Sam's hand closing around his, reassuring and comforting and just _there;_ there to tell him yes, there to tell him it's fine, there to them him _they_ are fine_. _Dean takes the chance to glance upward, almost as if he's checking to see if Sam's watching. When he confirms he is, Dean leans forward, a strange sort of embarrassment taking over as his lips brush against the stitching, the hot, alcohol-covered skin of Sam's upper arm.

He hears a soft sigh escape Sam, the kind of sigh that indicates he feels alright, that he feels good; and Dean relaxes immediately, following the slight pull Sam has on his hand, a bit confused as to what he wants but nonetheless pleased that his little brother isn't in pain. "Closer," was all Dean heard as he felt Sam's other hand curve around his back. He takes the moment to shift, stretching his legs on either side of Sam, his calves against Sam's hips as Sam's own legs are long enough to bend slightly as though to trap his older brother close to him.

"Where's it hurt, Dean?" Sam murmurs, eyes half closed and head bowed slightly, his long ragged bangs brushing his older brother's shoulders. Dean can feel his breath on the curve of his neck and shoulder, and it makes him tense a bit, almost too uncomfortable and awkward in this position; yet he's comforted by big hands on his back, thumbs grazing his skin of his hips as he shifts to get comfortable.

They haven't been in this situation, this position, for years, he remembers. The first hunt Sam had gone on didn't ended too well, ending in injuries and cuts that required stitches and extra care. Afterwards, Sam had been in so much pain (physical and/or emotion, Dean didn't know; probably both) that Dean did something he never thought he'd ever do: he kissed at the cuts, the bruises and the stitches in hopes of erasing that pain away.

"Dean," Sam said, a tone of urgency layering his voice just so that Dean twitched back into reality, brows pulling together as he concentrated on the wall, the headboard of the bed, anything—anything but that tone and this heat and this _fucking_ embarrassment that was so unlike him, so _un_-Dean Winchester that he wanted to punch himself in the balls and—"Where's it hurt, Dean?" Sam asks again, leaning back the tiniest bit so he was able to search his brother's eyes for something, anything that could tell him where exactly it hurt.

"I, uh," Dean started, shaking his head a bit as he licked his lips out of habit. "I don't hurt anywhere, Sammy."

"Don't lie, you damn jerk. You said yourself you were in pain."

"I'm—" Dean swallowed, giving out an exasperated sigh as he shrugged, allowing himself to relax against his brother, silently cursing him for being so damn persistent, so damn careful with handling him even though he was obviously more beaten to hell. "My, uh, jaw. When the spirit jerked me away from the guns—hit the lamp—or whatever the hell it even was."

Hearing that caused a snort to come from Sam, which ultimately caused Dean to narrow his eyes; however it didn't last long before Sam's lips were pressed against his brother's jaw, careful and gentle as fingers pressed into his back as though to assure him it's alright; which wasn't too fair, really: Dean should be the one taking care of Sam, not the other way around.

A moment passed before Sam leaned back, breathing out a sigh as he pressed his forehead into the curve of Dean's shoulder and neck. "Better?" he asked, tone a bit too taunting and teasing for the older's tastes.

Dean rolled his eyes, leaning forward to brush his lips against the small cut on Sam's temple as he allowed his hands to rest at his brother's waist. He let his fingers curl and uncurl; pressing into the muscle as though to relax it. "Should be askin' you that, Sammy."

Sam snorted, and Dean could practically hear his eyes roll. "I'm fine like this, really," he admitted, giving a small shrug.

"Like… this?" he repeated, raising a brow as he pressed his hands a bit more firmly on Sam's waist, allowing his jaw to lightly bump his brother's temple as though to indicate what exactly 'this' was.

He felt Sam shrug again, fingers spanning against his back as he did so. "Yeah. This is, uh. Good, Dean. This is good."

"Huh," was murmured from the older as he considered it. Yeah, the closeness was comforting if not awkward at first—hell, they haven't been this close (so _fucking_ close) in weeks. The warmth was something Dean enjoyed, too, and Sam sure as hell had plenty to give. Dean twists his lips slightly, leaning forward the tiniest bit to rest his chin on Sam's shoulder. He nodded as he gave a small sigh, tilting his head so his face was almost buried in the curve of Sam's neck and shoulder. "Maybe this isn't, uh. So bad, after all."

Sam let out a laugh, a nod—and then another kiss pressed against Dean's ear. "No, not so bad. Though, you know, Dean, I'm still hurting here."

The older snorted a laugh, fingers pressing firmly on Sam's waist, traveling upward slowly to rest on his ribcage. "You want me to kiss it better?" he asks, tone still sarcastic and a bit taunting; though he was sure as day Sam knew he was serious, willing to kiss away pain anyway he could. When he heard the soft hum of _yeah_ come from Sam, Dean couldn't help the feeling of relief that came. So he snaked his hands upward a bit more, undoing buttons and pressing against Sam's chest as if to tell him to lay back, to let Dean take care of him.

Sam did as was expected from him, brows furrowed in slight confusion as he looked up at Dean, expression asking the question that was playing his lips. "Dea—"

"Just relax, Sammy," Dean assured, raising a brow as he looked at the all the cuts, the forming bruises. He ran his fingers over them, bending to brush his lips against the discoloration on Sam's collarbone. "Let me do my job."


End file.
